Violets and Everything

Spring Morning, 2021, Archival Digital Print

At last! Spring! We earned it this year enduring a mean winter that even now is hanging on with its icy claws. Sleet/snow last Friday, can you imagine?

Everything is in bloom and I feel so grateful to have been guided up here to the Hudson Valley.  The land has taught me. I’ve become more sensitive to the quiet and the subtle changes in light and color, the goings on of wildlife and plants.

But more than that, I have had time to reflect more deeply on what painting and drawing demand.  It is remarkable what a simple piece of vine charcoal can do.  Even a pencil.  All the world of images ready to come out and be seen stored inside, it just waits for some talent to pick it up and begin.



Drawing Photography Painting

Snow Drawing with Twig, 2019, Archival Digital Print

Snow Drawing with Twig, 2, 2019, Archival Digital Print


The two photographs are part of my continued interest in images which merge drawing, photography and painting into one seamless medium which emphasizes the experience of seeing over the experience of naming.

Studio Pleasures

The Pleasure of Chaos, 2018, Archival Digital Print

The question for all of us is how we give our gifts back. It is the sole reason we are here and while it would seem an easy mission, in truth, for many, a clear sense of purpose is never formed out of the fog of being.  There are always diversionary activities, and with enough of them one can fill up a life.  But to what end?  If we aren’t aware of gifts then we cannot discover our purpose and we will never live fully.





As things start to turn

Retreating Snow, 2018, Archival Digital Print

I started a painting yesterday, this thing that seemed to come from some source other than me. It presents itself and wow! I am surprised by what I see and how it got here.  Later I was out finding images to shoot and was reminded of Morandi’s landscapes, the drained color and almost imperceptible hue differences, I see him everywhere now.


Studio Discovery

from a still life series, oil on gessoed rag, each image on 8″ x 10″ sheet, ca. 2003

Each day I unpack a few things in the studio before I start work. On Monday I found this group of paper paintings way in the back of one of the flat files. These were the latest of a series that started in the late 90s. The first set was shown at my second solo at M.B. Modern in New York. It was a boxed set titled Small Mysteries.  I’ll dig up an image and post it later.  From there came more, two boxed sets about Glenn Gould’s piano, one shown in an Institute-wide Faculty Drawing Show at Schafler Gallery at Pratt, the other now in a collection in New York.  These above were the beginning of an as yet unfinished new series about still life.  They are part of the aria that streams through my mind about Black & White and the miracles it releases.

My Nancy

Ice Cream

Catherine Redmond, Ice Cream, 2015, Oil on canvas, 14″ x 11″

My painting is in the article in today’s New York Times on the show Dogs & Cats: 21 Artists Unleashed and on the Prowl.  Opening at the Mark Miller Gallery on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side, Miller will donate a percentage of sales to the Humane Society and critters are invited to attend the opening.  Nancy, her marvelous independence and personality has been my friend throughout life though I only started to consider her as subject matter in the last few years.  In last year’s interview with Ira Goldberg in Linea we discuss its personal origin for me.  Nancy has broad shoulders and can mean many things to her fans.

Linea Interview

Portrait in Grey, 2014, Oil and graphite on canvas, 14" x 11"

Portrait in Grey, 2014, Oil and graphite on canvas, 14″ x 11″

It begins:

Catherine Redmond lives in the Garment District. Walking there from the Art Students League in Midtown, I stroll down Ninth Avenue, through Hell’s Kitchen, which has undergone a revival (along with most of Manhattan) that brings to mind a Hollywood concept of old New York: great food shops and restaurants in old tenement buildings. There is an urban homespun atmosphere that is irresistibly charming, and that’s just how I feel when I arrive at Catherine’s. She welcomes me with a hug as I get out of the elevator. As we walk into the loft I’m greeted by a four-foot square painting on the wall directly facing the door; it’s an interior with a still life of flowers that looks like a display of fireworks. This, along with paintings lined up on easels and the stretch of white walls pinned with studies, speaks of Catherine’s exuberance and sophistication. I know we’re going to have a great conversation.

An interview with Ira Goldberg has just been published in Linea.

Kit White: Devolution of the Modernist Field



Copy, Kit White's painting from his recent show at Andre Zarre in Chelsea

Copy, Kit White’s painting from his recent show at Andre Zarre in Chelsea









Unforgiving arrangements on a nostalgia laden landscape of desolation march through Kit White’s new series of paintings. Less a field of potential than one of ruin. Yet, wait, could this be a cleaned slate ready for action? Naw. That doubt is the confounding posed in White’s potent exhibition at Andre Zarre which closed on Saturday.

That I saw it almost in the last hour of the last day seems apt. These works occupy the urgent last hour in psychic time. White’s comment on the contemporary condition, a society rent by struggle, some fenced in, others fenced out; or his own disappointment in the loss of late modernist precepts, we are unsure. The evidence of tracings — Guston ink drawings come to mind — now after-images, faint, hovering in the past, rudimentary leavings, ideas of architecture, too, they are barely present, like the itch of memory of a memory at the back of the mind, annoying but without the satisfaction of a precise recall.   Covering the fades are awkward, left-handed detritus of the new forbidding age.   Whether documentary film footage of the camps or a riff on that worn out trope “mark making,” White doesn’t blink and has it all here owned by his eye and his steadfast refusal to use his extraordinarily sensitive touch of his earlier work. Only one blush of pink, on one painting [above], a faintly rosy cloud, a smear of paint, remains. Good news? Or the last dancing ions of the bomb?